girl again. Now Dylan’s well-intentioned protectiveness had put her in an even more precarious position.
With a surprised whoop and a flurry of skirts, she fought against the sudden frontward jerk caused by the cowboy’s fall. She pinwheeled her arms in a search for balance—and almost found it, too. For a single, breath-holding moment, she tottered at the stage’s edge. Then her ankle buckled at an unmistakably sideways angle. Crying out, the dance hall girl pitched forward.
She was falling. Instantly seeing her predicament, Dylan lunged toward her. He held out his arms, ready to catch her. Before he could think twice about his decision, he received the gift he hadn’t wanted and had no present use for: an armful of sweet-smelling, silky-haired, caterwauling female.
It all happened in an instant. With an oof, they both collapsed beside the cowboy on the sawdust-covered floor, saloongoers scattering to all sides of them with shouts of surprise.
Ouch. Dylan winced, still cradling her. Stupidly, as it turned out, since she’d landed atop him like a hundred-pound sack full of nothing but elbows and knees. She’d obviously been gifted with multiple sets of each—or at least that’s what it felt like. He wondered where the hell her admirably curvy hips and delectably full bosom had gone. He held fast anyway.
Their ignoble pileup defused the developing saloon fight. Instead of throwing punches, saloongoers hollered, pointed and laughed. The piano music kept on tinkling. Chairs scraped backward, then were settled back into place. Dylan had a moment to register the soft roundness of the dance hall girl’s rear end in his cupped hand, to experience the feathery, sneeze-inducing interference of her sparkly headpiece in his face...and then to tardily understand that she was trying to get away from him.
That was unusual. Most women tried to get closer to him. Given any excuse, they snuggled nearer and flirted—just like the other garishly painted and less interesting blonde dance hall girl had done earlier. But this one was different. Also, Dylan observed amid the ruckus, while parts of her body might be soft, her gouging knees and prodding elbows most certainly weren’t.
Even as Dylan came to grips with that, the dance hall girl kneed him again, coming dangerously close to his manly bits.
Involuntarily, he loosened his hold on her. Just by a fraction, but it was enough for her to take advantage of.
That was all right with him. Argh. Chivalry was one thing. Volunteering to be made a functioning eunuch in an unexpected dancing girl tussle was another. Dylan valued his masculinity.
Even if she didn’t. Clearly. With a determined final effort, the dance hall girl rolled sideways, adding a vicious and maybe not accidental belly squash to her initial blow as she went. She scrambled onto her hands and knees, then sat on her backside instead. He glimpsed her annoyed profile, heard her murmured grumble of exasperation as she adjusted her feathery headpiece, and briefly entertained the idea that she might not be as properly grateful for his intervention as he’d hoped.
Gingerly, Dylan moved a fraction. Everything seemed fine in the downstairs department. He released a long, pent-up breath.
He couldn’t believe he’d come to her rescue and almost gotten himself a banged-up set of punters for his trouble. Was she going to apologize? Or thank him? Or even acknowledge him?
“I’m so sorry, ma’am.” The cowboy’s thick drawl reached Dylan at the same time as his sense of being affronted did. Obliviously, the knuck kept talking. “Are you all right?”
“I was wondering the same thing about you,” the dance hall girl had the gall to say—to the cowboy. “Are you hurt bad?”
Dylan glanced up in time to see the fool’s shy smile.
“I’m just fine, ma’am. It’s yourself I’m worried about.”
The cowboy’s weathered hand—sporting a full set of predictably grime-encrusted fingernails—entered Dylan’s field of vision. Evidently, the cowhand had discovered gallantry. He was trying to help the dance hall girl up off the floor. She seemed to be hesitant about that. She also seemed, as she frowned anew, concerned about putting too much weight on her injured ankle.
Rightly so, Dylan reckoned. That onstage crumple had looked serious. Ankles, feet and legs weren’t meant to go in contradictory directions—not while connected to the same person. Thanks to her whirling skirts, he’d had a clear enough view to know that’s exactly what had happened to her a second ago.
“I didn’t mean to trip you up.” The cowboy offered dubious encouragement by waggling his filthy fingers at her. “I’m awful sorry about that, ma’am. It’s just that you’re so pretty. I plumb couldn’t help myself. Catching ahold of you was like catching a beautiful, sparkling star, right here at Murphy’s.”
Still on the floor, Dylan rolled his eyes. Then he got to his own hands and knees, counting on getting upright in time to help the dance hall girl to her feet himself. As he should.
“Well, aren’t you sweet?” she cooed to the cowpuncher while she cautiously tested her ankle’s strength, speaking just as pleasantly as though the fool hadn’t caused her to fall offstage. “It’s only too bad that I never, ever go spoony over men who frequent saloons. It’s my one ironclad rule, you see.”
“You...what?” The cowboy whined with confusion. Then regret. Then resignation. “But if I weren’t here at the saloon, I wouldn’t never have seen you in the first place, now, would I? So you wouldn’t have needed any rules about me to begin with.”
“No.” She sighed, then pulled an elaborately regretful face—a markedly pale one, probably on account of the pain. “Isn’t that the devil of it? It’s a conundrum, all right.” She panted. “You’re awfully clever to notice that. I do very much appreciate your kindness, all the same. I sincerely do.”
As Dylan nimbly got up—the whole endeavor having taken a few seconds at most but feeling like much longer—he glimpsed the cowboy’s crestfallen expression. It was evident that the man didn’t know how to begin arguing against the dance hall girl’s convoluted logic. She was being so all-fired sugary about it that he couldn’t very well object outright, either. She actually seemed...disappointed not to have those grubby hands on her.
Against his will, Dylan admired her gumption. Her fortitude in withstanding the discomfort of her injury. And her cleverness in making her turndown of the man both impersonal and final, too. Most likely, she’d had years—given her advancing age of probably twenty-eight or so—of disarming unwanted suitors. She’d learned to do so capably and kindly, without stirring up unnecessary rancor in the process.
Also without damaging her saloon-owning boss’s business, Dylan couldn’t help noting. Given a fair choice, no man would choose to forgo the whiskey and companionship available at a good saloon—not even in favor of wooing a woman. Doubtless, Jack Murphy would applaud that tactic—then ask her to teach that technique to the other dancers, besides. A few of them looked as though they needed more than a thimbleful of her good sense.
As he shouldered forward to help her stand, then to let her lean sideways on him, Dylan found himself appreciating her unexpected gentleness in letting down the cowboy almost as much as he admired her ingeniousness in doing so. But he’d rather be hog-tied and left wearing nothing but boots in a blizzard than admit it. First, because he wasn’t a man who went all mush-hearted over other people’s business. Second, because...well, where in tarnation was the damn appreciation she owed him?
He
